by J L Gillham
Once I’ve rehidden the magical snow globe, I curl up under my comforter. I can’t sleep. I’m guessing guilt is the reason my mind won’t hibernate—that and trying to figure out what will happen if the entire dome has cracks in it.
Will it eventually shatter, exposing Winter Wonderland to the world? Maybe all that’ll happen is Dad will need to magic up a new dome. Yes, that’s it, I tell myself and try to slumber again.
After spending twenty minutes counting sheep, then candy canes, then sheep eating candy canes, I throw off the comforter and turn back on my lamp. It only dimly illuminates the room, the kind of help I need when waking up in the middle of the night to use the restroom and want to avoid walking into my dresser.
The door creaks as I open it a sliver. There are no elves wandering around in the hallway. For the first time in my life, I wish I had a lock on my door. After closing my door, I retrieve the magical snow globe from my go-bag under my bed. I trace the breakage, but the crack isn’t jagged enough to cause my finger to bleed.
When I gently place the snow globe on my dresser, the light from my lamp shines through it. This causes a replica of the web-like fractures on my ceiling. I lie down on my bed and look up, a colorless substitute for a kaleidoscope.
“How do I fix you?” I ask, not expecting an answer. If the duplicate crack was in my bedroom ceiling instead of the dome, one of the elves would cut out a large square that contained the defect and replace it with a new piece of sheet rock, then repaint the ceiling. There’s no way I could cut out part of the dome.
I sit up and look around my room. “That’s it,” I say aloud as I rub my toes, sore from the scraping sand. Hopping up, I grab my nail file from my dresser. Then I start back and forth motions at the end of one of the cracked tendrils on the snow globe as gently as if I were filing a baby’s fingernail. A minute later, I inspect my work. “Ugh,” I complain after seeing no change in the fissure. I put everything away and try to drift off to sleep by dreaming up a new plan to fix what I have done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The next morning, I want to sleep in, but my growling stomach wins out over my incessant yawning. As I make my way toward the dining hall, I decide to venture back into the maze of vents in the arboretum. Maybe if I retrace my path, I’ll find the booklet I lost—that is, after I’ve checked the sleigh for my gems.
“Princess Claus.” Jolly scurries toward me. “Princess Claus, you are behind on your training.” He pulls the pen from behind his pointy ear. It hovers over the paper, and then he scribbles something. “By my estimate you skipped four days this month.” He draws a large circle on the paper, then holds the number up for me to see.
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. “I’ve been training since before I was born,” I joke.
“That is not possible.” He returns his pencil to its resting place, then points his finger at me like I just stole Geir’s last cookie from his cookie jar. “How do you expect to be the next Santa if you don’t take every opportunity to train?”
My stomach rumbles loudly enough for both of us to hear it. Thinking about cookies was a bad idea.
Jolly lowers his fully-cocked finger. “I’ve set up the simulator for you.” He turns and walks away toward the training room.
“So, does that mean I don’t have time for breakfast first?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Maybe I can clear my mind during training. I change into my uniform, then jog the short distance from Homebase to the simulation center.
I near my destination, the tallest structure in all of Winter Wonderland. It boasts five levels. In the center is the simulation room, though technically it’s a house. To my annoyance, the entire home is surrounded by glass walls so that any onlooker can watch. I am grateful the walls are one way, though. At least I can’t see Nicky making faces at me in an attempt to distract.
During the simulation, the top level of the house is usually converted to the roof, then the next three levels down are three floors. Occasionally, Jolly likes to put the living room in the basement, like he did during my last simulation.
Why in the world any sane person would celebrate the most wonderful day of the year in a dank smelling room crawling with sprickets is beyond me. And, yes, Jolly goes as far as raising his own sprickets in the arboretum just so he can torment me with them. “Got to be always on your toes, little missus,” he says every time I complain about the monsters.
I stand at the closed door, waiting for the announcement to begin. Like always, I’m in my uniform. Black boots with matching leggings and a red thermal top. My black utility belt wraps around my waist. After making sure my items are all set, I put my hair into a loose braid and don my thermal cap, pink.
“You know that hat is not regulation.” Jolly says over the loudspeaker.
I shrug my shoulders and mouth the word “Oops.”
Although this is my least favorite part of the day, my competitive nature kicks in. I also remind myself I will be the next Santa, so I let competitiveness mix with determination.
On the wall of the hallway leading to the entrance of the simulation center is a horizontal scroll. The first column is the difficulty level, followed by time finished, then date and name. Then there’s the column totaling the score for each try. Lastly is the total of all of the scores for the year. Last time I checked, Nicky and I were neck and neck, but Dad has a strong lead over both of us. And that’s not because of his Santa abilities.
Dad’s promised not to use his magical gifts during the simulation, not that he needs to practice. He’s been delivering gifts for almost two decades. Nicky and I think Dad continues training just to force us to work harder at our training. So, eventually one of us can beat his high score.
“Simulation beginning in three, two, one,” Jolly announces, pulling me from my thoughts.
Before beginning, I assess my surroundings. Clear night with minimal winds, which means Jolly has decided against using the industrial fans. He’s also turned on all the stars, small lights meticulously ordered to match the constellations above whatever country this home is supposed to be in.
I shrug into my backpack that was resting on the floor and proceed slowly along the walkway. As I do, I glance at each window in the house. The darkness informs me no fire is lit.
I make it to the stationary sleigh on the ceiling. Then I inch toward the chimney. Though I can’t detect any snow or ice covering the shingles, I take no chances. The trick I figured out is to treat each roof like it’s a frozen lake. You never know when there could be a crack in the ice, or a hole from a leaky roof. The lower half of my body dangling through the ceiling isn’t going to score me any points.
Leaning the backpack against the wall of the chimney, I use both of my hands to take out my favorite tool from my utility belt, my grappling hook. I attach it to the edge of the sleigh, then lower myself down the inside of the chimney. A hint of a glow, probably from the lights on the Christmas tree, illuminates the bottom of the chimney.
“Ah-choo.” With no free hand to wipe my nose, I ignore the tickle and continue on. The second sneeze that comes a moment later is so large I can’t help but suck in a deep breath before sneezing it all out.
I scurry down the rest of the chimney, ready to wipe my nose with my sleeve as soon as possible. The finally familiar scent makes me wonder if the treat left by the simulated homeowners is hard-boiled eggs that have already sat out for hours.
With a final twist and turn, I’m out of the chimney. Protocol is to check my new surroundings before even considering doing anything else. I see all the blinds are closed, which is why I couldn’t tell there was at least a little light casting shadows in the living room. With the area so dimly illuminated by the tiniest rainbow-colored bulbs I’ve ever seen, everything is hard to make out.
I consider flipping on a light but know that’ll subtract a lot of points. Instead, I remove my headlamp, switch it on, and replace my cap with it. After shoving my pink hat between my pants and belt,
I survey the room again.
I take in another breath. The same hard-boiled egg scent from before fills my nostrils; however, it is stronger. After a few seconds, I spot the table with treats on it.
I walk over to the tray of snacks and pop a cookie in my mouth. While chewing, I imagine Dad and I going from house to house, working as a team and commenting on the decorations of each home. The thought takes my breath away. I inhale a long slow replacement of air and cough. Maybe it’s more than good thoughts affecting me.
Realizing how dry my throat is, I walk back to the snacks. Instead of another cookie, I take a swig of the glass of milk, then spit it out.
“Yuck.” I put the glass down and make a mental note to thank Jolly for the rotten drink. Normally, I don’t even consider the milk. Drinking it is a rookie mistake, but not only is my throat dry, I’m also beginning to get a headache as well and thought liquid might help.
Does Dad have a large jug of water with him he keeps in the sleigh when he delivers gifts? I’ll definitely need to stay hydrated when I join him. The usual fear that fuels my unease is missing. That’s when I realize hope has replaced it, hope that I can become the next Santa, and make my father proud and hope that the family can travel the world for little getaways at least on occasion.
I pause from my happy thoughts and look for a trashcan as my stomach churns. I realize there aren’t any in the room and, in one swift moment, have my pink hat in my hands as a make-shift barf bag. No longer concerned with making good time, I stand and try not to upchuck the sour milk I drank. After a few seconds, I am able to ignore the nausea, even though it’s slowly worsening. Time to finish this, I tell myself, as I shove the hat between my belt and pants again.
Next, ready to survey the room, I spin on my heels and instantly trip over a pile of gray blankets. The blankets shift. A wolfish face raises. That’s when I realize I’ve come face to face with a large pair of dark eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I cringe and shrink back, waiting for a growl. Instead, I get a slurp as my face is licked from chin to forehead. After wiping my face with my sleeve, I take a closer look.
“Rover,” I tease. A few seconds later, I’ve snatched one of the cookies from the table full of goodies and tossed it to my grandmother’s dog. “Nice trick. What’d ya do? Spray paint his fur to make him look like a wolf?” I shout so Jolly can hear me, although I know he won’t respond until after I’ve completed this simulation.
Rover’s fur is soft, and to my surprise, the dye to make this husky look more like a wolf doesn’t rub off on my fingers.
I know I won’t always be this lucky when coming face to face with a pet. Some homeowners want a dog to sit on their lap and snuggle all day. Others want a living security system.
I’m betting most people won’t think to crate their guard dogs on Christmas Eve, so I’d better be prepared. After a quick check of my utility belt, I realize I forgot to stock up on doggy treats. I make a mental note to replenish my supply after I’m done this simulation.
As Rover munches, I finally get a chance to look at Jolly’s handiwork for this simulation. I spot a generic pine tree. However, what is anything but generic is the tree’s container.
The base is a ceramic pot I’d recognize anywhere. I painted it when I was eight. A horizontal rainbow covers it from top to bottom. Upon closer inspection, I find my signature in pink, “Princess Claus.” I sigh, wondering at what age I stopped liking my parents’ nickname for me. This tree and its pot were transported from The Hallway of Trees in Homebase. Nice touch, Jolly.
“No time for nostalgia,” I whisper to myself, remembering Dad’s advice to pay attention to the details around me. Suddenly, I realize how light my shoulders feel. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
It takes me three minutes to climb back up the chimney using the grappling hook’s thick cord. Once I’m sitting on the right edge of the chimney, I suck in deep breaths, embarrassed by how out of shape I am. I’m sure Nicky wouldn’t have gotten so winded from a climb like that. Then again, Nicky wouldn’t make a rookie mistake like leaving his backpack on the roof.
While still sitting on the chimney, I bend down to pull up my delinquent bag. It rebels, and I see one of the straps is hooked around a decorative metal piece on the bottom of the sleigh.
“Come on, already.” I yank harder on the top handle of the bag. On the third heave, it resigns to my will. However, with the amount of force used to pull the backpack up, now that I’ve got it, I can’t stop my momentum.
“Fiddle-d-fizz!” I roll off the lip of the chimney, hitting my head in the process.
Tumbling like one of Nicky’s balls in snowball soccer, I roll down the roof smashing the backpack in the process.
I uncurl at the last moment when I get to the edge. The top half of my body rests on the roof, but my legs are dangling.
In the process of trying to keep myself from falling, I let go of the bag. It begins a slow roll. For a moment, I consider releasing one hand from gripping the roof to catch the bag. Though I haven’t looked over the edge, I’m sure the ground is covered with some sort of soft surface. Maybe it’s shredded tires or maybe it’s a thousand pounds of cotton balls. Then again, maybe Jolly forgot to double check the safety measures.
In one swift move, I yank my legs up and make a 180-degree spin. Now instead of my legs dangling, my upper half is. At the last moment, I grasp the strap of the backpack, pull myself completely onto the roof, and slide the bag onto my back. Then I move carefully upwards.
On the third step, I slip. I can’t stop myself from looking down, and I fall.
For once, I’m glad I glance below, because I catch sight of a terrace. Since it was only a short distance, I manage to drop to the platform, landing on my feet.
I give myself permission to rest a moment. Then I hear Rover whimpering on the other side of the window. “I’m coming, boy.” I turn the handle of the glass door.
“Yes!” I shout, grateful at least one thing is going right for me tonight. Finally, able to fulfill my mission, I enter the room through the unlocked entrance, making sure to close the door behind me, walk over to the tree, and unzip my backpack.
If this weren’t a simulation, the kid who opened these gifts would probably throw a fit. All three boxes are smashed. I place them under the tree, regardless of their poor state.
Then I use my grappling hook to make it back to the top. With each pull upward, my energy goes down, and the dull ache in my head progresses to a throb.
Finally, my head pops out of the chimney. I tumble over the edge and land flat on my back on the roof. With almost no energy left, I reach my right hand as far as it can go.
The moment I touch the sleigh, I shout, “Done!”
Immediately, the speakers crackle. Then Jolly speaks. “Didn’t you read rule number thirty-seven? Never drink spoiled milk.” Hearing his voice lets me know the simulation is definitely over.
“I didn’t know it was spoiled.” I wipe my sleeve over my tongue as I force myself to rise and trudge toward the exit.
“If it’s been sitting out all night in anticipation for you, there’s a good chance it’s spoiled,” Jolly states matter-of-factly.
“So, how did I do?” I can’t help my eagerness.
Jolly is used to me asking him this. But what he doesn’t know is that this is the first simulation I’ve ever done when I actually cared. Up until my little trip to the beach, my score during training was important for the sake of my pride. I am the oldest sibling and would love to beat my dad’s score, so I worked hard to do well.
However, now I’m taking Finn’s advice. I’m going to give being the next Santa a try. I lift my chin as I continue walking along the bridge to the exit.
“How’d I do?” I shout.
Instead of an answer over the speaker, the door to the exit opens. Jolly appears. “You got a zero.”
“What?” I ask as I continue making my way toward him. This is the first time in my life that’s hap
pened. I’ve always known it was a possibility, but I can’t remember a time when Nicky, Dad, or I failed.
“Your score on this simulation is a zero, because you failed to save the lives of the simulated family you were delivering gifts to.” Jolly puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head.
My mouth drops open, and I stop walking. Before I can ask how, Jolly continues.
“Happen to notice that sulfuric smell?” Jolly asks.
“Do you mean the hard-boiled eggs?” I give as my only answer.
“Being Santa isn’t just about keeping smiles on kids’ faces. It’s also about making sure the entire family isn’t in danger.” Jolly’s voice rises. I plug my ears to keep them from hurting.
Then Jolly mentions how Nicky had his best score earlier this morning when he went through this simulation. “Your brother realized that although the fireplace looked off, there was a steady flow of gas leaking from it.”
That’s when I realize what the nausea, headache, and dry throat were really caused by.
“You’re right. I should’ve realized what was going on. But did you really expose Grandma’s dog, Nicky, and I to gas?” I frown.
Jolly’s grin surprises me. “No, I had some non-toxic chemicals pumped in through the vents to simulate the sickness you will feel if you ever enter a home where the gas was left on.”
Sneaky. However, I am grateful for Jolly’s warnings. Although this was the worst score I’d ever received on a simulation, it was the most important. I had been so preoccupied with delivering gifts I forgot about what’s more important than a happy holiday, a safe one.
Then, without another word, Jolly turns and begins walking away. Suddenly, I remember my lost gems that hopefully fell out during the sleigh ride yesterday and not in the sand.
“Jolly!” I shout, hoping he’s still listening.
“Yes?” he mumbles as he continues walking. His voice is barely audible.
“I need to get into the barn with the sleighs,” I say, my tone making the words seem more like a question than a statement.
